India Abroad article on Bharat Yatra 2010

http://www.indiaabroad-digital.com/indiaabroad/20101224?pg=34#pg34

(yay)

WWJD?

It's so cold out that it hurts my teeth to drink hot coffee. CNN, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and even the arbitrary psuedo-political and barely intellectual blogs, all circle around the same 4 topics: not-so-secret diplomatic secrets; the surrender of politics to the moral obligations of helping 9/11 heroes, freeing closeted soldiers, legalizing those American in all but name; Obamacare's flaws and inadequacies; Sarah Palin's newest blunder, exalted by the Tea Party and Jon Stewart. It tires me. Everything is the same. People don't want to see Obama's brilliance, the NJTransit bus is always late, politics and the economy and all the other fabricated "isms" that have been so loosely thrown about are nothing more than words, words which don't stop frostbite or runny noses or stiffened toes.

In the midst of political and physical frigidity, the last thing I wanted to do was attend a foreign policy forum at the Yale Club. My juvenile conservative fetish has started to corrode, giving way to the forces of common sense and a more durable liberalism. I wanted to attend for a change of pace, but also wanted to not attend for the same reason. I ultimately decided to go, and after roaming around 42-44th streets on Vanderbilt Avenue for 15 minutes (I work right by Grand Central and yet its precise location still eludes me), I saw the Yale Club as refuge.

After handing in my coat, my scarf, my lunch bag, my overnight bag, (and after the man behind the coat check grew a few white hairs), I walked to the fourth floor, past all the libraries and men in sports jackets and women in pearls, to the forum. For some reason, I wasn't registered (even though I did it twice), so got to scribble my name on a blank card. I found a few other familiar faces, and as if I had not spoken in years, I let loose a tirade about PPACA, about flaky pedestrians, about Coach bags and Ugg boots. In between "Obama's saving the U.S.!" and "I'd rather buy 100 burritos than half a Coach bag," we explored the open bar and welcomed with open arms the waitresses providing endless mini bruschettas and knishes and pineapple.

And then someone clutched my arm. "Is that Jerry Springer?" I looked to my right and saw an older man talking to a group of eager young faces, but could hardly believe it to be Mr. Springer in the flesh. I almost yelled, "Jerry! Jerry!" but decided instead to silently stand next to him till I could confirm it to be true.

Most other groups in the room formed around a topic of interest--North Korea, socialism, the free flowing white wine. As I edged closer to Mr. Springer (not yet on a first name basis), I caught snippets of the conversation. "So, do contestants on your show really have those issues or is it scripted?"

It really was him. I introduced myself, he introduced himself, and then we briefly discussed my boss and her policies before a blonde JP Morgan banker inserted herself into the conversation and stole Jerry from me forever. As she maintained a fixated gaze, I fumbled around for my camera. I didn't have the passion she had, and I just wanted my taste of fame before I headed home.

He said he would be in a picture only if he could get a copy.
The rest of the forum went well. Most of the economists on the panel were conservative, small government folk, the types of people both Jerry and I resented. I stopped caring what they had to say, what Chris Matthews and Brian Lehrer had to say, what my office had to say, what my parents had to say.

I just want to know what Jerry would do.

Catharsis

It was one of those days when the wind whips your face so hard it looks like you're wearing a cheap brand of blush, when it rains so hard that the windows groan, and when the only relief you have from large muddy puddles of water are smaller puddles to the left. People were poking each other with umbrellas, hurriedly brushing past the AM New York newspaper guy in order to get to the nearest awning, running from one to the next. Despite best efforts, everyone was drenched, cold, frenetic. In an epic battle against the ennui of our fabrications and constructions, of midtown east and overpriced delis, of business casual and leather shoes, of 9-5 and 9-infinity, of Republican filibusters and self-indulgent nuclear warfare, Mother Nature rose from within herself to shatter the very artifice in which we have captivated ourselves. It rained and rained as if the Earth were crying, as if purging its elation, fury, passion, sensuality in one desperate attempt at reinstilling chaos.

j'attends

I think about 87% of the day goes into waiting. (I also think about 46% of all statistics are made up on the spot.) Life is scheduled, rendered static by the multitude of deadlines, due dates, red flags we impose on ourselves. And still, despite knowing what is next, I find myself constantly suspended somewhere between the past and future, without having realized the present. We just sway back and forth, rapidly tapping our watches in anticipation.

I wait for the bus, for Port Authority, for the E train. I wait for the right word to come to me as I write an email. I wait for the response. I wait for the right time to relay bad news to a constituent, for the right time to finally throw my hands in the air and give up. I wait for Friday. I wait for 5:00, for 6:00. And then I wait for the E train, for Port Authority, for the bus.

And during all this waiting, nothing gets done. The goals to refashion my body, to refine my French, to apply for whatever is next in my life seem to slip from my fingers as I can only focus on the idea of some distant future, not the actual process of attaining it, of making it a present reality. As I wait to fall asleep, I tell myself tomorrow will be a new day, the day I start writing a screenplay, swimming 5 AM laps, reading the books on my ever-growing list. And then tomorrow becomes today, and today we just sit waiting for tomorrow.

Some of us are waiting for Godot. But the rest of us are just waiting, not even sure for what, or for whom, we wait. Such is life. We're at a standstill, breathless.

telephone

The last time I played telephone was in the first grade. We played during a fire drill in order to pass time. After the initial shock of "chicken nuggets" becoming "Rick and Meg's cats," we slowly grasped the way to overcome the mispronunciation--speak loudly, listen clearly.

I never would have thought that this elementary game would manifest itself in my actual life. Last week, as my family took its usual seats around the kitchen and family room--my father standing above some dark chocolate scattered on a TIME magazine, my sister lying on the couch with her laptop propped on her knees, my mother standing by the stove in frantic disarray, and I sitting at the counter with some cheese--we engaged ourselves in some real-world telephone.

Manu: Guys, you don't have to come to my dance if you want to pick up Dinaben and Nanaji from the airport.

Rucha: Yea, no big deal, I can drop her off at Mexicali Blues. And I'll get wasted while I'm there. Where is it? Is it on Cedar Lane?

Abhay: What about Mexico? Aw, guys, I am so sorry, I didn't know you wanted to go to Mexico for Christmas. Okay, fine, no problem, let me start planning it now.

Parul: Katariiiinaaaaa.

Manu: Who wants to go to Mexico?

Rucha: Isn't Katarina a Russian name?

Abhay: [launches into history of the name, "Katarina"]

Parul: Who cares? I was just saying we should watch "Dancing with the Stars!"

Manu: Oooh okay! But watch my dance first I need to practice for Sunday.

Abhay: Speaking of which, we might not be able to go because we have to pick up Dinaben and Nanaji from the airport. Will that be a problem?

~~~

not so vanilla

There was a period of time in my life when I would be late for school because it took me so long to swallow pills, even the small ones you could easily lose if you dropped on a tile floor. Now, I take several huge pills a day--calcium twice daily, fish oil three times a day, a multi vitamin with breakfast--all necessary to prevent a complete degeneration of my already debilitating joints. After dinner, as I sit at the counter popping the last round of pills, my family gathers in the adjoining room. The television is always on, and my sister pretends not to watch it as she does her homework. My father is either half-asleep and mumbling about the gym or releasing a full-throated laugh at Stewie's latest antics on Family Guy. My mother is either sending out emails and text messages, inevitably misspelled as she neglects to wear her glasses, or she is periodically shaking her arms during commercials, in efforts to build triceps. At times my father gains a sudden interest, and, filled with an arbitrary energy, he supervises my mother in her peculiar arm movements, shouting out instructions along the way. My sister yells at everyone to be quiet so she can watch her show, and then everyone yells at her to finish college apps, to finish her psych homework, to finish her breakfast every morning. When I finish overdosing myself, I sprawl across my mother's lap, stick my feet under my sister's butt to stay warm, and then loudly recap the contents of my lunch to no one in particular.

And after unsuccessfully resisting sleep for a few hours, we all head to our respective rooms, and four simultaneous screams of "good night" converge in the middle of the corridor, where they stay suspended until the first signs of morning.

Not sure about the other 6, but Sleepy definitely exists

Yesterday was Thirsty Thursday. I could say it was my first since I graduated, but that would imply that I used to be thirsty every Thursday, straying from reality of my addiction to the study lounge. Last night, the office stayed back to watch our boss debate her Republican opponent, Joe DioGuardi, a wrinkly old man who talks in the third person. There was wine, there was pizza, there were cookies, and there was a seemingly dysfunctional cable television. And yet efforts to exercise before dawn, efforts to defend President Obama's health reform to ignoramuses, efforts to comply with the harsh realities of business casual--all of it converged into some sort of inexplicable exhaustion.

So, instead of waking up refreshed by the anomaly of midweek festivities, I was borderline unconscious on the bus into the city, to the point where a slightly alarmed, older man had to shake me awake after everyone had gotten off. I awoke with a start, jumped of the bus, and walked in circles till I figured out where I was.

I can do without Thirsty Thursdays. But I think somewhere in between the lists of things to do and the plans to make plans and all the other in betweens, I need a nap. Not a nap on the bus, but a real one, with dirty sweats and a soft tee and no coffee-fragranced commuters next to me.

Till then, Thirsty Thursday may have to be put on hiatus, possibly for a Siesta Sunday.

we go back to the bad things for some good times

Real-life was no fun last week. I had a flu of bubonic proportions, and was surrounded by office politics and grown up street fights. All I wanted was Friday, the start of a 3-day weekend so I could just let loose, wear flip flops, breathe. And finish season 3 of 24.

On the eve of my sister's SAT, we decided to get a nice dinner so she could relax before the big day. The most obvious choice was Matt's, the overpriced, overrated, overcrowded diner in Waldwick. Wanting to forget our present lives in its entirety, we pretended it was one of those arbitrary summer days when the wind messed up our hair and the music on the radio could shatter the suburban silence without reprimand.

Unfortunately, it was a bit chilly. The flu left me weak, and I was not ready to run my fingers through the night air, and instead kept the windows rolled up. My sister protested, and suggested (with exasperation) I put on my jacket. I refused, and insisted the windows stay up. Besides my runny nose, the cold was also bad for my knee. Resigned to life with a geriatric sister, Manu could do nothing but fumble with the radio; finding nothing, we resolved to play her iPod. Since we didn't have the deck with us, we decided to improvise--we set the volume to the max, and I held up the headphones so that we could hear the faint rumblings of something remotely R&B. And so we drove to the diner, with but remnants of our carefree summer nights, headphones and shivers in hand.

Once we sat at the diner, thoroughly looked over the menu as if it had changed at all in the last 7 or 8 years. I told my sister I was really craving their veggie burger. "But I thought you hated it," she said as she briefly flirted with the idea of getting scrambled eggs. "Yes, but I am really craving it. I just want their awful veggie burger. It falls apart every time, but I want that mush." She shrugged her shoulders and went with the penne a la vodka.

Her meal came with salad, which was so unfresh we only ate the kidney beans and stale croutons. My burger was reliably awful, and as I picked it up it fell through my fingers, so that I was forking broken veggie patty doused in ketchup, with lettuce leaves and coleslaw. Once my nostalgia was satiated, I became angry at myself for intentionally paying for bad food. I then resolved to finish my sister's dish, which was just short of authentic Italian, leaning towards something like Kraft or Velveteen.

On our way home, we stopped at Van Dyks, to wash down our gourmet meal. I was too full from finishing 2 dishes, and still too cold from the October skies, but my sister got cookies 'n' cream. On the way home, I held the headphones in one hand and the ice cream in the other, and periodically fed her large spoonfuls so that she could drive with both hands on the wheel. We're all about the safety.

By the time I went to bed (after watching a couple of hours of Jack Bauer saving Los Angeles from a biological weapon), I had forgotten everything I had ever worried about, and fell asleep to the sounds of an undercooked veggie patty swimming uncomfortably in my stomach.

rainy days and frivolity

Today was one of those days when you're allowed to buy overpriced coffee rip-offs. I seemed to be at a loss with my casework, have a nagging, crippling knee, and, most importantly, have a Visa gift card. All circumstances pointed to the necessity of making a frivolous purchase, one which would usually go against my principles.

I bought a chocolate stirrer. It was a wooden stick with a dark chocolate cube at the end. Again, everything seemed to point to the necessity of this chocolate aparatus in my life.

These edible stirrers were by the register, and so I picked it out last minute when I was paying for my cappuccino, which in and of itself is too wild of a purchase for me. The chocolate cube at the end of the stick immediately started melting away, till my cappuccino tasted like thick hot chocolate and I was holding a wooden stick with brown putty on it.

I threw out the remains of the stirrer and indulged in the hot drink. The weather is still gloomy, the knee still throbs, and New Yorkers still suffer the rising costs of their own existence, but I'm hoping everything just melts away, and becomes a de facto hot chocolate.

buddies

So as I step off the E train headed in the direction of Third Ave (where I work) I bump into the Deputy Director who was heading in the other direction. He looked puzzled and I told him it was quicker to walk the other way. And then as we made small talk on the elevator, we turned to see the State Director on the escalator right next to us.

And then the three of us skipped to work holding hands.

AM blues

It was one of those mornings when you heave a sigh, ruffle your bangs, and say with a scowl, "It's just one of those mornings." I woke up more exhausted than when I hit the pillow the previous night; I had waited 2 hours in Port Authority the evening before, nestled comfortably between a pack of Korean tourists and a middle aged commuter who smelled heavily of white-out and cigarettes.

The aftermath of my moving back home as my cousin moved in finally hit me, and in the morning I was scouring through piles and piles of my clothing on the floor, trying to look for a decent shirt. I had no time for breakfast--I was too busy cursing my room, my family, and the gods which rendered me helpless to the clutches of disorganization and lethargy. As usual, I took everything out on my parents, who in turn brandished their most lethal weapon of mass destruction: kindness. Loyal to their origins, the state from which Gandhi hailed, they never reacted violently to my tantrums, choosing instead a path of peace that rendered obsolete any of my concerns. They passively accepted everything I said, and even felt bad for me, before promising that they would build my dresser over the weekend. Their kindness angered me more and I told them I didn't want a dresser. I just wanted conditions to stay miserable for some time so that I was justified in lashing out at the world.

NJTransit proved to be a reliable factor in creating cruel and unusual conditions. The bus was late, and as it started raining, we found ourselves stuck in traffic. The woman in front of me was yelling about her local car dealership. My Sherlock Holmes mystery conceded to the complexities of this woman's life, detailed so clearly for anyone on the bus who had the slightest interest.

I rapidly limped to the E train, only to find the doors close in front of my face. My knee throbbed under my own weight, only reminding me that my new job was a sad excuse to stop working out. The E train arrived 10 minutes later, and, like cattle, we were herded onto the train by the forces of responsibility, obligation, and habit.

Many of the side streets by my office have been closed off for the United Nations Millenium Development conferences, and so as I stepped out of the Subway, I was again shuffled through arbitrary matrices crafted by the NYPD.

I finally neared my building. I stopped at the cart by my building, run by an old Italian man who always says "thank you" to me in Hindi. Instead of the usual small, I ordered a medium coffee with milk, and could barely manage a smile from my immobile lips. The wrinkles around his eyes creased with concern. "One muffin for you, my darling. Just for you." For the first time since I awoke, I felt my own heart beat. I was suddenly conscious of myself, of my own breath, and the slowness of the persistent sunlight, which parted the clouds that had hung heavy during my morning endeavors. I sipped my hot coffee and clutched my muffin as I waved to the security guard inside the building.

The first email I got in the morning was from an agency contact informing me of a favorable decision for a constituent. There was a resolution, some hope, for an economically and physically disabled woman with whom I had been working all summer. I immediately called the constituent to relay the good news, and I could hardly comprehend her words of gratitude as she heaved sobs of happiness.

I felt pretty accomplished. Before 10:00 AM, I got a corn muffin from an old man and blessings from an estranged lady, her face anonymous but her life familiar.

When I got home, I ate Lebanese food with my family. The fattouche was stellar, and the falafel was pretty subpar. I kept staring at all of them. My grandfather read aloud the menu for the entire restaurant to hear; my grandmother and mother sat in fits of giggles; my father was trying to compare all the dishes to Gujarati dishes for easier access. My sister was there in spirit--she kept texting me her misery in SAT class. No one made any sense. I forgot about the morning's fuss, mainly because of the chaos of dinner. I smiled again, as I smiled with my free muffin and my favorable case.

It was one of those days when you heave a sigh, ruffle your bangs, and say with a smile, "Life isn't half bad."

no drama, just life.

I secretly want to be a Bollywood actress, and dance in the rain and fall in love and fight bad guys. In fact, sometimes I listen to songs, English or Hindi, and create makeshift music videos in my head. Pain, confusion, loss--it all seems bearable when it is accompanied by a background score. But then the song is over, the iPod runs out of battery, or we just grow up, and the beautiful tragedies we have woven are dispelled, rendered obsolete by the cold reality of life, which happens backstage. There is no drama. There is no poetry. Pain isn't beautiful. It hurts. And as much as we have made ourselves out to be the tragic heroes of our Romantic histories, we're just people, without a background score or a rain machine or any hint as to what will happen next. We just are, life just is, and everything else follows.

Woes of a Working Woman

I oscillate between two different worlds 5 days a week. Every morning, I sit at the cold granite counter in my kitchen and eat plain oatmeal with fruits and nuts, while my grandmother laments about the seeming lack of milk in my diet, and my parents discuss office politics and Tuesday night free movies. I make my lunch, I aimlessly search for shoes before deciding to wear the same black flats once again, and then my mother drops me off to the bus station. I used to pretend to read on the bus, but I have now come to accept the inevitable, and just keep extra tissues to wipe off the drool once I reach Port Authority.

The earth shakes once the bus makes its final stop. There is a thundering of footsteps, of wheels, of a sudden tension and speed. The walk to my office is only about 25 minutes, but my 65 year old knee usually prefers the Subway. Like cattle, we all cram into one train; the really experienced travelers manage to read the newspaper above everyone’s heads and rest their Starbucks coffee comfortably on someone’s elbow. The 5 minute walk from the Subway to work is filled with very distinct types—middle aged workers from Jersey; unattractive and skinny European models; tourists with fanny packs and an illusion that Third Avenue is the place to be.

My work is wonderful. I get to interact with all kinds of people—the sad, the grateful, the crazies, the powerful. My day revolves around service, but is colorfully peppered with death threats and free cupcakes. As wild as my job might seem (the cupcakes are insanely delicious), it is the actual time I spend outside the office and outside my home, in a lingo, where I find myself in a suspension of reality.

Two weeks ago, as I was walking through Port Authority to catch the E train, and someone aggressively taps me on the shoulder. A lady with copper curls started walking in step with me, and in a deep southern drawl said, “Seriously, though, this country is just so obese! I mean, I just look around and see all these fatties. You know what I mean? I guess I could say I am one of them but seriously, what is with this country? I mean, that is why everyone has diabetes!" She laughed and then walked ahead of me. The woman was not fat, and that was our conversation in its entirety.

Since my grandmother is here, my family has been more active and involved with each other than usual. My grandmother yells about the termination of naptime after I graduated Kindergarten (ideally I should be bringing my sleeping bag to the office); my mother simultaneously asks about my pending marriage (I should settle down at some point relatively soon) and my future ambitions (I should not be domesticated and strive for excellence in my career); my father barks about my tangled hair and agrees with my mother on her contradictory advice (I won’t go far with this marital bliss stuff if I don’t brush my hair). My sister is the only seemingly normal one, but the very fact of her functional existence thoroughly perturbs us, so she gets scolded by default. In the midst of all of this chaos, I try to find some peace on the bus. Unfortunately, NJ Transit seems to have also gotten the memo to wreak havoc in my life.

There was one day when I was particularly tired. A plague had ravaged the office, and 5 or 6 people were out with various mystery illnesses. My left eye had been burning and secreting mysterious clear liquid all week, and my knee was reliably acting up. I assumed I was dying, or at least coming down with a cold. My family was in Virginia Beach, so I walked to and from the bus station. Coupled with phone calls reassuring my family that I was alive, filled to the brim with calcium, and taking naps during staff meetings, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

The one day I left work slightly early, for fear of catching some Bubonic strain of yellow fever mixed with pink eye mixed with sun rashes, I came home exceedingly late. The subway was crowded until someone farted and inadvertently kicked off 30 people at the next stop. While this was convenient for my nonexistent personal bubble (which continues to burst as I commute to work with toothless singers and greasy wife beaters), it aggravated my left eye even more. My contact was dangerously sliding up, and my vision kept blurring. I was to meet a friend for dinner in Ridgewood, and desperately needed to get home to pee, take out my contacts, and wash off the stench of underground bodily gas.

I raced to Gate 163, where the bus had stalled for some time. I let out a sigh of relief as soon as I dropped into my seat. A few minutes after the bus left Port Authority, the driver pulled over and parked on the shoulder. She got out of the bus and spoke on her cell phone for about ten minutes. She got back on and told us we had a flat tire, the second one today, and that we would be shuffled to an arbitrary parking lot where we would get on to the next bus. “And I don’t think that bus will be air-conditioned.”

I wanted to call my friend to tell her I would be late, but my phone had died. I didn’t have her number in my work Blackberry, so I tried to email her. The screen went blank about five times before I could finally send her a miserable one-liner: “Bus has flat tire. FML.” My iPod also died before Bruno could finish telling me about the beautiful girls all over the world. My left eye continued to break down, and so reading was out of the question. I stared out in silence until I finally fell asleep.

I was woken up in Paramus. An old Russian man with bad breath was sitting next to me, incessantly poking me. He asked me if the bus was express. We had been on the road for 45 minutes; Port Authority was far behind us. I said yes. And then as I attempted to doze off again, he sustained a conversation with me until I got off at my stop. Then I walked home, ate a handful of wheat crackers that tasted like the box, washed my face, and ate Thai food with my friends.

Yesterday, my iPod was quite functional, but the passengers who elected to sit next to me were not. The first man had just caught the bus about 30 seconds before it left. He was sweating heavily, and sat down right next to me—right on top of my open purse. He said excuse me after he sat down, but continued to deform my purse. With some difficulty, I pulled it out from under him. His cologne was overpowering. My face broke out in rashes and I pressed my face against the dirty glass. He got off after about thirty minutes. I was then alone, and listened to music in peace, thinking of nothing. The bus emptied as it neared my house. When we were about 15 minutes away, someone came down and slammed onto the seat next to me. The person was incredibly close, and I turned to see an old, fat, sleeping man to my left. A strong beer lingered in his breath, which blew out hot and heavy into my face. His legs were sprawled and his hairy arm effectively disintegrated any shred of personal bubble I thought I had left. I was squished into the glass; my headphones knocked uncomfortably into the window as he kept leaning into me. With one final snore, the man fell asleep into my lap. I was too stunned to be disgusted, and then too afraid that I would miss my stop. I sat there in silence, and sent incredulous text messages to all my friends. I held the phone over his head as to not disturb his slumber.

Though I seem to be in a constant state of transit, running from mode of transport to mode of transport, hurriedly shoving slow walkers (seniors included) aside, cursing MTA and NJTransit, I find myself at a complete standstill as I leave Manhattan. I always take a window seat on the right side of the bus, so that when we drive along the river, New York transforms into a frieze. The world pauses, I pause, and together we stop and stare at the dynamicy and vibrancy of grey steel. And every day I close my eyes and smile to whomever is watching, happy that I am still very much a part of such a beautiful city.

DATED JULY 26: Mandawa, Rajasthan

It pains me that in just four days (I am writing this on the 29th) I have already begun losing any sense of clarity, of orderly memory of each day’s events. Instead, I remember the small details, the feelings, the faces. This account attempts to describe day 2.

We were awoken at the crack of dawn. Some of us were jetlagged, some of us were cold from the excessive air conditioning, and some of us answered early wake up calls. We dragged ourselves to breakfast, still barely knowing each other, and then set off on our first of many adventures.

Our first educational experience was in an educational institution. We visited a school for physically challenged children. We were initially hesitant, scared of being sad, scared of being scared, and generally unsure of ourselves. But the students themselves welcomed us into their lives. In shrill voices, all of the children bowed down in an unsynchronized “Namaste” before they started to show off their skills.

One girl stood up and sang. One boy recited his numbers. Upstairs, in a classroom for deaf and mute children, two boys recited the alphabet in sign language, which was different in Hindi than in English, and then one proceeded to describe in sign language kids in our group as tall and skinny, or too fat. The school was a bit rundown, small, and the classrooms were dingy. But the students were incredibly excited, and the teachers, who didn’t get paid, were incredibly impassioned.

The institution is funded primarily by private donors, with supplemental government assistance. (Any human or monetary contributions would be greatly appreciated. Go volunteer your time!) As we were about to leave the school, we saw that the students in one classroom downstairs started to dance. The organizers of group were in a tearing hurry (a sensation that one feels immediately upon stepping on Indian soil) but we were all drawn by the music and started dancing, too. Forgetting where we were or who we were supposed to be, all of us, regardless of age, size, disability, or any other characteristics listed on the back of an NJTransit ticket, threw up our hands in delight.

After our workout, we visited some bricklayers beside a farm. While we watched, they systematically, without pause, hauled large red bricks into a truck. They made 50 rupees each for every thousand bricks in the truck. Per day they managed to load 5 or 6 trucks. Their practice of laying bricks had been used for generations. Nothing had changed. Life was completely static. The same sect of people, the same location, the same tools. The efficacy of the methods used denied any need for reform. The timelessness of it all rendered our concerns, our reforms, our ideals, and ourselves obsolete. We just stood watching.

The infamous havelis of Mandawa were next on our Yatra. They were splattered with fading frescoes, missing gems, and dusty halls. We felt estranged from a glorious era, from a past we would never know. Cracks in the walls split the frescoes into distorted images, denying us access to any sort of comprehension. An old man was crouched down by the entrance of one of the havelis repainting the thin vines across the wall. He was retouching the walls, history, and promised us with the soft strokes of his brush the potential of the future.

On our way back to the hotel, we stopped to visit a potter. Unlike some of the farmers and bricklayers we had met, this family spoke no English or Hindi, and preferred animated gestures supplemented with Marwadi murmurs. The potter, an old man with a wrinkly face, thin voice, and clear eyes, took a lump of clay, water, and smashed it all down onto a pottery wheel, a perfectly round slab of cement and a rock. Out of one shapeless lump of clay, he managed to make vase, a piggy bank, a tea cup, and a diya. There was absolutely no wastage, and he effortlessly molded the obscure pile of dirt into delicately crafted, functional pieces of art. It was another timeless work—his father was a potter, this man had been a potter all his life, his son was a potter, and his grandson, the little boy running around the place without his underwear, would soon learn the trade.

We got back to the hotel exhausted, sweaty, and grimy, and ready to finally become friends.

The Sound and the Curry

DISCLAIMER: These aren't generalizations. They are observations, some substantial enough to formulate scientific theory.

1. Gum Thriftiness. My father has always taught me the art of saving. I print on old paper, I rarely wash my jeans, and I use Tupperware. I also only eat half-pieces of gum. Unless it is Diwali, a birthday, or New Year's, no one gets a full piece. My father thinks I waste a lot by eating half-pieces; I have been a bit spoiled by my American upbringing. When there is a strong need, he distributes one-fourth to each of us.


2. Animals. There have been times in my life when a potentially fun night has been ruined by the flu, by train delays, by last minute papers. The second night we spent in Rajasthan, on the Bharat Yatra trip, could have been a crazy night of reckless youths were it not for the herd of stampeding buffalo that ran us out of the streets. We had had enough of the wild evening and after some time (during which we conversed with locals and got out hearts beating at a normal pace) we retired to our hotel.

3. More Animals. At one point in Rajasthan we were stopped at an intersection. Quite frankly, I am not sure if it were actually a designated intersection or traffic was just going in all four directions. I looked out the window only to find the epitome of biodiversity waiting patiently beside our tour bus. There was a camel, a stray dog, and a cow, all among the scooters, the rickshaws, the buses, and the people riding bicycles barefoot. Of course, the cow had the right of way.

4. Bowel movements. No matter where in the world he's settled, the Indian will freely, without moral or social compunction, engage in discussion, deliberation, debate of his digestive system. Diarrhea has the potential to bond or to break. It is not uncommon for relationships to form from a shared bout of constipation--one thing leads to another, and while you're busy not shitting, you make some beautiful friends. My grandmother has crafted philosophies based upon daily fecal patterns. If a person doesn't do his business every morning, he creates heat in the body, which in turn affects his mental state, and thus leads to high blood pressure, short tempers, and obscurity of thought.

Indians can be very real, very authentic; everyone knows shit happens, and there's no need to hide it.

5. The Sound and the Curry. Meals are events. There are pots clanging, flames raging, people yelling. Always people yelling. We yell so that people eat, so that they take seconds, so that they don't be shy; they yell to convince everyone of their small appetites, to encourage others to take seconds, to then dispel the lies spread of their minimal appetites by inquiring about dessert. There is a desperation to share, to make sure the visiting relatives have tried the ingenius foods of the New World (i.e., Pinkberry, Taco Bell); and in the midst of this desperation and excitement, the actual food is forgotten, and everyone concludes that the cuisine in America pales in comparison to the wealth of spices, colors, textures of cuisine in India.

6. Frindles. If it sounds right, it probably is a word. Phrases are made up for people with big noses, small cheekbones, skinny arms, fat ankles. Everything in Gujarati, especially, is rooted in an onomatopoeia. Sometimes, even if it phonetically is inconsistent with reality, if it is fun to say, it will pass. Monkeys say "hookla" and frogs say "chow chow." I say nothing, staring at the ceiling in silence for answers.

More to come.

salvation by salivation

I still don't know who makes holy water holy. I am pretty confused as to the prerequisites for Heaven and Hell, and I always feel restless in temples or churches. I think my apathy to the institutions, to the pandits and priests, to the rules and the fear, is inspired almost wholly by my parents. My mother and father instilled in me a sense of wonder and excitement, a sense of modesty beside the majestic contours of the Earth; they taught me how to revel in good music, in good art, in good people. And in good food. Apparently, God doesn't just live within all of us, but within gourmet meals and exploding stomachs.

I awoke to a still morning, shattered only by the crackling of morning tea, and then the heavy chatter of humans in the family room. While I was eating my toast, my mother told me we should take my grandmother to the mandir [temple]. I sighed heavily and asked her which one. "Ruch, remember? The one that serves idli dosa?" My frustrations quickly became anticipation. "Wait, there is a temple that serves idli and dosa?" And then my grandmother chimed in. "Yes, we went there last time I came. They serve idli and dosa." Just to reiterate, in case someone had missed the message, my mother repeated herself. "It is a temple that serves idli and dosa."

I went to the gym (I am still trying to work off my paneer from my recent India trip, as well as the implications of free cupcakes at the office). When I came back home two hours later, my father patted me on the head and told me I had an hour to get ready. I asked him if we were going to the temple that served idli and dosa. He shook his head. "No. We decided to go to that restaurant, Moghul Express. Everyone got excited about the idli and dosa so we thought we would skip the mandir and just get the goods."

I agreed with the decision. I got ready in about 30 minutes and we reached the restaurant about 90 minutes later. We laughed and listened to music and wished for world peace en route. As we licked the last of our plates clean, I realized that we managed to attain a sense of contentment for which people search their entire lives. I touched my mother's hand, and she touched mine. And then my dad mistakenly spit ice cream in my face, while my sister videotaped the scene.

Bon Appetit.

DATED JULY 25th

This was the first thing I wrote on the trip. I am not sure I feel the same way. But, anyways, there it is.


Initially the only difference between this trip and any other to India was that my family wasn’t coming with me. Instead, I held on to my own passport, slept on my own shoulder on the plane, and couldn’t steal anyone’s extra bread roll. Everything else on the trip seemed previously seen—the airplane blankets we desperately wrapped around our small brown bodies despite the static cling and smell of vomit; the discomfort of sitting upright for more than half a day; the luxury of watching multiple Bollywood movies in a row. We were all well acquainted with the journey, just strangers to each other.

Once we landed, that same tearing sense of familiarity and estrangement, one that continually resonated with us since we took the very first trip to the home country years before, consumed us. The same disparity between the tall, glass buildings and the short, muddy huts, the same littered streets, the same potholes and stray cows, the same colors in the street and blatant stares at our bare legs, and the same heat and warmth, all equally confused and relieved us. We got into our Bharat Yatra bus and started a 6 hour journey to Mandawa, Rajasthan. We passed by 2 naked boys showering by the highway, and they waved to us with a sense of wonder. We waved back to them with the same sort of curiosity, and took pictures of them as they became part of the frieze.

It soon became very dark, and the bustling India we know in the day conceded to the vast emptiness of the night. None of us was from Rajasthan, and so the night was even more isolating than in years past. The bus drove past endless fields of green, of bent trees, of dirt. And a feeling of fear suddenly rose in my chest, a feeling I have had in India before. I was in the midst of an impenetrable mystery, unable to solve it, unable to participate. We passed by lots of arbitrary buildings, a lone cement block in the middle of a field, abandoned shops and carts, and miscellaneous wrappers evidencing the day’s events. I wanted to know everything that had happened, wanted to know the purpose of the shed, of the cart, and wanted to know who was there just 12 hours before. Every inch of land had a story, and it was in a language I would never understand. I was watching, I was alone. Like everyone else pretending to fit in with ease, I found myself caught up in my own lies, unsure of my place in this dark, desolate, and incredibly quiet place.

How can we call this the home country when we bring with us precautions, when we make sure to carry repellant and antibiotics and flipflops for the perpetually wet bathrooms? How can we call this the home country when we fear theft and harassment? How can we call this the home country when we sit staring, while everyone stares back at us?

I finally went to sleep, in hopes of finding an answer soon, ideally in the next 13 days.

some call it a stomach infection, some call it vestiges of home.

I have been wrestling with myself ever since I stepped foot in America, on the subtle concrete soil of the John F. Kennedy Airport. I keep laughing and crying at the same time, happiest when I look through pictures of stray cows and sweaty, tan friends, and saddest when I look through pictures of stray cows and sweaty, tan friends. I have been so incredibly blown away by the Yatra that I don't know how to express my emotions. I meant to keep a blog, but instead kept new friends, new experiences, and found a new me. For fear of sounding too Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul-meets-Oprah-Winfrey, I find myself completely lost, undiscovered. As much as I can honestly say that the trip helped me find myself, I can just as easily say this trip confused me all the more. In two weeks, I have felt at such ease with a dysfunctional busload of students, cameramen, chaperones, and other randos inevitably on our tour bus. I found solace in strangers, order in chaos, and peace in blaring car horns.

And now that I have returned to an orderly cleanliness, to systematic procedures, and to a house that does not wheel me around a desert state, I don't know what I am supposed to do. Apparently I have to wait on lines now? And I can't just break out in Guju accents to my friends?

I don't know where I am supposed to be. I could be in India, I could be in New York, I could be in a perpetual suspension over the Atlantic. Yatris, please help me find my way home.

back in the day...

I have absolutely no idea what is going on with my friends these days. Apparently, there has been heart break, newfound romances, new jobs, and people moving to Korea. My life is essentially a constant rinse and repeat. I slip into the pool, I do some laps, and then once I am outstripped by those on Social Security, I dip into the hot tub. The physical distance from my friends has become an emotional distance, and the less I am involved in their lives, and the less I am engaged in what makes the world go round, the more my youth slips from my fingers.

I need to belong somewhere. If I am not part of the young and the restless, then my cane, my gimp, and my dental sensitivity to cold should allow me membership into the Hot Tub Club. Unfortunately, the rushing process is much more extensive than I would have thought. My acceptance is only conditional; I think my knee pain only persists so that I can have friends.

When I got into the hot tub last week, I sat across an old man who had a red face. He frowned at me, and said, "Shouldn't you be in school? Why are you here during the day time?" I replied with a smile. "Well, this works with my schedule, and I have a knee injury so I can't keep up with the night time lap swimmers." He looked confused. I continued. "And I don't have school right now; I just graduated." He looked slightly less angry, but still perplexed. I sighed. "From college. I graduated from college." He looked relieved. "Oh! I would have thought you graduated from high school. Okay, well what's wrong with your knee?" I explained the condition to him, but I did not tell him the name, because so many people have mild cases of my knee problem, that it is embarrassing to let others know that I find it debilitating. He then said some long, Latin word diagnosing my condition as a disease that ended in "iosis." "Yup, I had that. 13 knee surgeries and a knee replacement." He got out of the sauna. "In fact, I was your age when it started. Football injury. Well, good luck kid!"

The next day, there were already 4 or 5 people in the whirlpool. I got in, and immediately all conversation stopped. Everyone looked at me for an infinite moment before resuming conversation about legalizing marijuana. "Where can you buy marijuana seeds?" "My grandson has a friend who deals marijuana. But I don't know if he grows it himself." I blanched (well, as much as any brown girl can blanch). They discussed the benefits of smoking pot, which they "of course do not not know from experience." Apparently, percosets can only go so far, and a full body spell could do wonders for arthiritis. I began to wonder if smoking pot would help my knee pain, but I wasn't allowed entry into the conversation. They then began to talk about smoking cigarettes, and how they didn't even do that as kids, while nowadays kids smoke on their first birthdays. "I mean, the reason I didn't smoke was because I thought that if I had to pay money for something, and I put it in my mouth, I would want to eat it!" And then I laughed out loud, and they all looked at me, and I got out of the hot tub.

I didn't realize how much I needed my new friends, or my new sorority sisters and fraternity brothers, until I went into an empty hot tub yesterday. I sat by a mildly spurting jet with wistful glances into the pool, hoping that one or the other would climb in with me and tell me about their latest gardening fiasco or latest line of dentures. No one ever came in.

That evening, my mom thought I was in a bad mood when she came home from work. She asked me about ten times how my day was, and every time I responded, "Fine. Nothing new. How was work?" And I finally explained to her that I wasn't upset about anything, but I genuinely had nothing new to tell.

Maybe tomorrow the pot-smoking advocate will reveal her red-flag bearing, flagrant Socialist sentiments, and have something to say about DPRK and Brazil. I'm watching the game alone, just so I can contribute to the conversation.

Or, I'll just listen and nod, once again.

French Open, here I come!

Rafael Nadal just won the French Open. He was off the courts last year because of a knee injury, and today was biting his trophy in triumph. His victory confirmed my own resolve to fix my knee. If he won the French Open this year, then, with steady therapy and swimming and cycling, I can win it next year. Or, if not the French Open, I'll definitely be able to dance on tables with my friends again.

On Saturday, I went for an early morning swim. I woke up at 6 to make my sister eggs before the SATs, but she ended up eating Cocoa Puffs so I ate an egg on toast myself. Since driving aggravates my knee, my mother drove me to the Y. The lifeguard stared at me as I timidly walked into the pool. I walked over to her to confirm that this was the open lap swim. She smiled, and said, "Yes, but it is the Ladies Swim." I blinked. And then I realized the problem. "Oh! Well I am 21. I know I look young, but..." And my voice trailed off in hopes that she would stop suspecting me of traversing age boundaries and just let me swim. She seemed confused. "No, it's not that, it's just that it is Ladies Swim. That is the nature of the swim." I looked down to make sure that I had not developed into a man, and then looked back at her, and shrugged.

There were many old ladies in the pool, all in floral, ruffled bathing suits. I thought maybe the lifeguard was trying to tell me that the nature of the swim was slow, relaxed. I started swimming, and since I was kicking with only one leg, I grew tired very quickly. The seemingly docile women began to lap me. I decided to push myself further; I didn't want to give up just yet. I needed to work out double the time to even get half the workout for my knee, since it was barely doing any work. I refused to cede to the reversal of fortune (the aged lapping the youth) and stayed in the fast lane, ultimately hit women in the head as they caught up with me and I was furiously kicking my left leg to compensate for the immobile right. I managed to stay in the pool 3 times longer than the night before. Some of the ladies who had suffered blows ended up leaving the pool 3 times earlier.

Apparently, slow and steady wins the race. While this isn't a competition, and I am just trying to rehabilitate myself to live life like a 21 year old again, so I can dance with my friends and go shopping with my sister and walk in the park with my mother and learn tennis with my dad, I wouldn't mind if things got a little heated. One day soon, I am going to beat the little old ladies at their game. Until then, I'll just swim slowly and steadily with one leg.

Old may be gold, but I was always more a fan of silver.

My body is in the process of completely shutting down. I know that technically with each breath we take, we are closer to the end; but I am not talking about oxidation. My body has decided to expedite this natural process. My range of mobility last week was limited to the bathroom and the couch, where I had to continually shift my body so that my knee stiffen in one position. I am not sure if this is a physical reaction to graduation, or just a subconscious effort to resemble my grandmothers, but one thing is certain: this knee condition has further confused my age ambiguity. My face looks young, my gait appears old, and I am neither getting cheap children's menu grilled cheese nor senior citizen NJ Transit passes. So, now you can just add broke to the list of grievances.

As soon as the long weekend ended, my flu/total bodily collapse commenced. Initially, my throat would hurt only in the mornings, which nicely balanced the pain in the second half of my body. By Wednesday, my head was on the verge of explosion and my ears were on fire. I was supposed to head into the city Thursday for drinks and love with friends I haven't seen all semester, but instead I got drunk off of Theraflu and watched The Office.

I usually intersperse my wallowing in self-pity with bursts of determination and positive energy. After seeing a second doctor on Friday, my father drove me to the YMCA to buy a swim membership. I decided I would start swimming again, in efforts to slowly get back into shape and strengthen my atrophying legs. I refuse to be imprisoned inside my own body, by my own body, and so I went swimming that very Friday evening. I was scared to push my knee too much, so in 15 minutes I walked over to the hot tub, occupied by three ladies in their late 50s or 60s. I hobbled over to the other end, where I could directly expose my knee to the jet.

One of the ladies seemed to have taken charge of the conversation, and directed all talk to her intimacy with the director of the swim program, John Duke. "So when I walked into the office to register, they were all wearing green. Even I was wearing green. But John was wearing red, blue, and white. So I said, 'Guess John didn't get the memo.' And he said, 'I am wearing green underwear.' and then, you know me, never shy, so I said, 'That means you should wash your underwear because it has algae on it.'" And she laughed. And I was so enamored of her capacity to tell mundane and hopeless stories with such vitality that I forgot about my throbbing knee.

The lady next to her said, "But why were they all wearing green?" The first lady sighed, explaining that that was part of the joke, that it was a coincidence. The third lady, who had a slight eastern European accent, shook her head. "Maybe it was for a specific purpose, like the environment." The first lady continued to protest, and the other two began talking about climate change, and then all three discussed the oil spill. I was spellbound by their confidence, and began to wonder why they wouldn't just join James Cameron in advising President Obama.

The calamitous oil spill reminded Lady One about the chlorine in the pool. A Hispanic man walked by the hot tub, and she shouted, "Hey! Hey! Are you the Chlorine Man? Are you the man who cleans the pool? Hey! You! Chlorine Man!" His delayed response led to shouts from the other two ladies, who temporarily replaced Jesus with the desirable Chlorine Man. He walked over, looked at me, and then looked at them. Lady One explained that the pool was so cloudy she couldn't see from her end of the pool to the aquacising classes. "Take it from someone who has taken care of a lot of pools, indoors and outdoors, this pool needs to be shocked." And then she complained about how Chlorine Men these days don't check the levels of chlorine every hour like they are supposed to, and then stood up and motioned to her pelvis, because that is apparently what Chlorine Men check every hour. John Duke passed by just then; as she batted her eyelashes, she told him coyly to shock the pool and clear out all the band aids on the pool bottom.

I know when I am a third (or fifth) wheel, and so, without the ease with which she had gotten up to thrust her pelvis just as Chlorine Men allegedly do, I trembled up and climbed out of the whirlpool. The women took no notice, and John Duke and the Chlorine Man seemed to be in a heated discussion about the cloudy water and the Lakers.

When I got home, my mother massaged my knee, and talked to me about Jennifer Hudson's new body and Suri Cruise's fourth birthday party. I explained to her the complications of pool maintenance and how glad I was that I didn't have to walk to school uphill both ways with my bad knee.

No Conclusions

Professor Toulouse has given me the grade for my senior thesis, but he has not yet accepted my conclusion. It will forever be a piece in the works, without an end, ultimately nothing more than a brief moment in a continuum of learning and exploring and writing and rewriting. Though I initially wanted some closure to this massive endeavor, I realize now (after a week of endless nothings and laughter and knee pain before graduation and then another week of grown up nothings and laughter and knee pain after graduation) that I don't need any conclusions. All I need is a good intrigue. And maybe some painkillers.

I haven't felt the doom of graduation yet. I want to be cool and muse about graduation blues like everyone else, but instead I have gone on seemingly mundane adventures and eaten lots of apples and spinach. Every single day has been superficially ordinary, though bearing one or two small surprises that reinforce a continual summer-induced happiness.

Yesterday, I had to go meet someone in Jersey City. I was scared to drive into the city, scared of parking and scared of tearing out my knee by pushing the accelerator; but I had to face my unfounded fears and just drive. So, with Brian in the passenger seat, unperturbed every time I almost hit someone, I drove off into the blinding glare of the sun. I managed to reach Jersey City unscathed, and had one last right turn to make onto Marin Drive. I was all the way on the left, 6 lanes away from the turning lane, and was about to enter a toll. I tried to get to the right and cars all around began honking and screaming at me. There was nothing I could do. I went through the EZ Pass, and got into the Lincoln Tunnel. I was driving into the city, one of my worst nightmares after cauliflower and bad body odor. After some blood, sweat, and tears, I handed over the wheel to Brian, who managed to get us safely back to the woman's apartment. We drove her back into the city, and after Brian got his little-boy fix by driving around the city honking at innocent passerby, I drove home alone. It was the first time I had ever driven out of the city, and I came home feeling tired, achy, and utterly accomplished.

On Friday, I went into the city for an interview and my physical therapy appointment. I met up with Brian and Bianca afterwards, and we jumpstarted the night at Blockheads, where my taped knee did not get us any discounts on drinks. On our way to the subway, we walked into some swanky lounge, just because we could, and became friends with a Chinese guy who had shown up earlier than the host of his party, and who was only hired because his boss had an Asian fetish. We then made our way to Brooklyn, where we would be sleeping, and ate pizza with lots of spinach and fell asleep in a disarray of clothes, crust, music remixes, and dysfunctional relationships. We woke up feeling younger and smellier than we had ever felt.

Today, I am going to watch Sex and the City 2 with my mother and one of her best friends, because another friend of hers backed out last minute. I watched Where the Wild Things Are earlier in the day, and then I picked up my sister and her friends from the high school, almost running them over because my mind was so consumed with Jay-Z's 99 problems. I used frozen vegetables to relieve my knee pain, and then ate them for lunch. The sunny day converged into a dreary afternoon while I snoozed on the couch.

It is thundering and raining right now, without any signs of stopping, without any hints of hopeful sun. I love the smell of rain, and wet, and greyness, and clouds.

I'm not sure if I have just started something new or if the old thing is still happening; I am not even sure what I mean when I say "old thing." Moments have converged with spaces, and blackness has conflated with whiteness, so that all I can see is myself, right here, right now.

Real World, Day 2

I have been a college graduate for hardly 2 days. Besides consuming my time tagging graduation pictures on Facebook, I have started to dabble in real grown up, old people things.

My overactive bladder woke me up relatively early today. My knee was stiff and I had some cramps, so I took a hot shower to rejuvenate myself. I went downstairs and had some cereal with bananas and walnuts, which are supposed to help alleviate joint pain. I was still a little hungry, so I ate a few prunes.

During the day, I unpacked my trash bags and sorted through heaps of exam booklets and final papers, none of which will ever matter, and tried to integrate my old high school memories, my faded Hawaiian bedspread and prom dresses and baby pictures, with my new ones, the down comforter on which we would have bed parties in the dorms and Beatles posters that had once revived the dead walls of McMahon. It was difficult to impose my new life upon my old one, and I stopped trying, resigned to the fate of stuffing things under my bed.

Kelsey picked me up in the afternoon, so that I could help her clean the apartment before she checked out. Brian and Bianca joined us, and, in between spraying tables and making pasta, we managed to make the apartment finally decent, just in time for no one to live there. It was the last time we would be in 15F; everything was bare and empty, except for the unclaimed black socks under the dining table.

I went to my physical therapy appointment afterward. I sat between a wrinkly old man and a middle aged Asian woman; the doctor once again commented on my young age, and chuckled at how only older women develop my knee condition. He massaged my knee and I was on my way, with my purse and massive bag filled with leftover tupperware, free brown sugar I had stolen from restaurants, and miscellaneous objects I couldn't let Brian or Kelsey throw out. I took the first bus out of Port Authority, and before we had even hit the Lincoln Tunnel, I had fallen asleep on the stranger next to me. It was about 8:30. I woke up 30 minutes later with a jolt, apologized to the poor man on my right, and then talked to Bianca on the phone in order to keep myself awake and to muse about real life. While mine consisted of intimacy with strangers on public transportation, her real life consisted of a starved cat and dreams of moving to DC. We talked for an hour.

When I got home, I ate leftover pad thai and an apple, and then stayed up late to talk to my friends through all forms of media (Facebook, Gmail, text, etc...) My mother was lying down on the couch next to me, and I realized I was just as exhausted as her. The Real World tired both of us out.

I ate two more prunes before finally going to bed. My knee was throbbing, I still had bags to unpack, and my mind was restless with unfinished conversations and incomplete thoughts. I finally drifted off to sleep to the sound of a deafening silence.

The Graduation Game (by Milton Bradley)

Till we saw our names in the Commencement booklets, Patrick, Bianca, and I weren't even sure if we were set to graduate. With a sigh of relief, we allowed memories of Petit-Hall's mood swings and hidden graduation requirements to recede into the folds of our brains, which were growing numb as arbitrary board members droned on about Fordham's biggest achievements (namely, U2 and Bono.) The only obstacle to graduating was the graduation itself.



We were all barely functional when we woke up Saturday morning. The medley of pasta, string beans, and frozen pizza I had made the night before remained on the stove and Bianca was passed out on the couch under her 101 Dalmations comforter. We managed to look half-way decent, and then, since it was Commencement, I decided to buy my very first bagel, egg and cheese. I decided to save part of it for later, and "later" ended up being 5 minutes after I finished the first half.


Without regard to the notion of public, the three of us loudly discussed the previous night's events, traumatizing not only the unaware parents, but also the Ram Van driver who then retaliated by playing eerie futuristic music that reverberated deep into our marrow. We were stuck in traffic about 5 minutes away from Fordham, and Bianca held the egg sandwich's brown bag close to her face, heaving every so often as the motions of the car conflated with the motions of the music.



We passed the first test (Bianca didn't vomit and Patrick and I didn't reveal ALL of our personal lives to the rest of the van). We then needed to figure out where to go next. We asked a security guard where we should be, and he pointed in the opposite direction, towards the field where all the family and friends were collecting themselves. We realized we looked just like spectators, and then stopped in the middle of the road to put on our caps and gowns, a feat in and of itself. After about 30 minutes of fumbling and cursing and causing traffic jams, we went to find the appropriate location to check-in.





We received our graduation cards and went off to find a bathroom. The lines were out the door, and it was almost 10 o'clock. I decided to hold off on my pee so that I could graduate. The problem was, however, that no one had told us where to go. We ventured into the lawn, but our section was closed off, and we assumed (or hoped) there would be a much more ceremonial entrance. We finally stumbled upon a line of graduates, all of whom seemed to have received some information to which we were not privy. Some decrepit white lady yelled at us for not forming two single file lines, and any time we stepped out of the line to talk to a friend she would suddenly appear, as if from thin air, yelling at us to "get in two by two's." We found out her name was Astrid, and we feared her wrath the rest of the day.

We were fortunate to sit next to each other during the Commencement ceremony. The heat furthered our drowsiness, and all we wanted to do was play with water balloons and dance on chairs. We found the speeches to be incomprehensible, delivered by people we didn't care about who only showed face at events where they could promote the Alumni organizations. Senator Schumer taught us it was okay to make bad decisions, and so Patrick and Bianca then wistfully looked on at the kids behind us drinking out of flasks.


After about 64 years, the degrees were finally conferred. We had to herd ourselves over to the library, and once again we were confused about where to go. The three of us walked over the library to say hi to our friends and families, and Petit-Hall swooped down on us in her glittering purple robes, demanding us to stop. "Where do you think you're going? You have to line up there!" She pointed to a line of graduates who, once again, seemed to have received some message no one relayed to us. We lined up, ate our rations (Nature Valley granola bars and water), and waited for the ceremonial entrance.


After about 40 minutes, during which no one could answer my any of my logistical questions, we started to walk, down to the library and through crowds of spectators. I was tired, my knee was throbbing, and didn't want to be in alphabetical order. The next test was dealing with Dean Greif splutter and frustrate the entire procession. He was brilliant at being himself, and his classic confusion and nervousness, while normally cute and endearing, considerably slowed down the diploma reception.


Once we had finally reached the W's, I felt a sense of relief. The anxiety of deciphering arbitrarily indiscernible graduation rules and codes and procedures began to fade, and I realized that everything would soon be over and we could just enjoy the rest of the day. I received many loving text messages from my friends after I received my diploma. My parents then texted me from 10 rows back: "How many and what kind of subway sandwiches". Patrick, Bianca, and I had planned a family picnic in Central Park, so that we could all celebrate together without the confines of a restaurant. For the past week, our parents have been constantly texting, calling, and emailing us, not to see if we were alive, but to see if we had planned the picnic in the park. It was the biggest stress of their lives, and at one point during Senior Week, all three of us were in a bar huddled around Brian's blackberry, and wrote a mass email to our parents through group efforts. When my parents texted me at graduation, I replied curtly, telling them I would see them in 10 minutes and we could discuss then.




The stress of buying Subway sandwiches and coordinating lunch with the Shae and Rodrigues families was enough to dispel any emotions of finishing school, and commencing reality. Once we all finally collected ourselves, and Bianca's family finally found the park and I unnecessarily told Patrick's family that my apartment had no toilet paper, we could enjoy the wine and the hummus and the love and the bare feet. It was the complete release of all of our fears and anxieties and body pains and stress. Besides the fact that we could hardly answer Bianca's sister's question, "What are some of your favorite memories of college?" we had passed all tests. We were graduated. We did it, though we were still not entirely sure what "it" was, and were too tired to figure it out. The game had ended, and all we wanted was sleep.

My First and Last Spring Weekend

The only thing stopping me from having another veggie burger yesterday, at the Spring Weekend concert, was the anomalous bounty of straight guys surrounding me; I was shaken by the high levels of testosterone and Old Spice, and decided that drawing attention to myself through mass consumption of food would not necessarily help me find Prince Charming.

I never truly embraced Rose Hill till this past semester. I used to encourage the racial hatred, the segregation of our two campuses. Now that I am finally leaving, and the word "last" constantly finds itself in my daily lexicon, I have come to love what each campus offers: Lincoln Center has an abundance of falafel restaurants and beautiful people and novelty, and Rose Hill has an abundance of grass and kegs and polo tees.

Yesterday, in an explosion of youth and sweat and actual and spiritual inebriation, Fordham celebrated the beginning of Spring at the MGMT concert. My friends and I got to Rose Hill around noon; Eddie's Parade, which is usually teeming with kids, was strangely empty. I heard indiscriminate noise from elsewhere, and we all walked to a party off campus to start the day. The apartments were overflowing with kids. I knew no one and knew everyone at the same time.

We walked onto the field, and set up our blanket amid hundreds of others. There were girls in bikinis not even pretending to care about the music, there were kids from Lincoln Center wearing fedoras, determined to stand apart, there were guys throwing around water on the bathroom line. People were yelling and shrieking for no reason. It was as if everyone just found their own voice, and needed to express themselves before it was too late, before the sun set and it became Sunday.

During the concert, I was thrown into the air a few times, only to see a bunch of other kids throwing their friends around, too. I don't even remember how good the actual music was; I just remember the incessant beat to which we all pumped our fists in unison, a display of solidarity, of collective youth and illusions and hope.

Afterwards, I met up with one of my friends on my Global Outreach team. The MGMT tour bus was parked outside her dorm, so everyone gathered around the band to get shirts and arms and hats and scraps of paper signed. Everyone was high and tired and drained from the sun, and we sat out on the lawn for an hour, eating chocolate and drinking Powerade, waiting for the breeze to revive us. I took the next ram van back to Lincoln Center, and realized that if I were to stay in Manhattan, if I were to stay anywhere near my desk and my laptop and my list of things to do, then I would never be able to enjoy the rest of the night. I couldn't stay in the same borough as my responsibilities, so I took procrastination to new levels and got on a ram van.

We traveled from house to house, peppered our journey with pizza and skeevy bars, and ultimately ended up at an apartment covered in sand with an inflatable pool. We danced for hours and watched a girl on ecstasy fall into the mud. And then we headed back to Lincoln Center, for the second time that day, and got an early breakfast (at 4 in the morning). We toasted our eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches to the last weekend of our college careers. And to the speedy service.

I went to bed around 5, about an hour before the sun rose. I woke up in a few hours, unable to sleep beneath my down comforter, and ate some caramels. Sounds of Saturday's celebrations echoed in my head, as I flipped through my planner to try to focus on the tasks ahead. I skimmed over deadlines, and then flipped to the 3rd week in May. Less than three weeks till graduation. I ate another caramel and hummed "Kids," wishing only for something that lasted forever.

Transnationalism for $0.75

Every Tuesday or Friday, I walk across town to intern at Senator Gillibrand's office. Some days, like today, I get enough sleep and breakfast so that I don't need coffee. But after a few hours of work, my head inevitably begins to spin (I usually get lightheaded when I have to tell people their homelessness cannot be resolved this month).

I go downstairs, wave at security, and try not to smash into the glass as I spin through the revolving doors. I walk past the overpriced cafe downstairs, where everyone in suits and greys and on blackberrys gets their croissants and their natural flaxseed smoothies and tins of toffee. And I walk over to the white old Italian man in the cart, who smiles every single week, without fail, as though serving coffee and old muffins is his calling.

I get the same thing every week, coffee with skim and a bit of sugar. I never want a brown paper bag, just a few napkins for my constantly runny nose. I hand him a dollar, he gives me a quarter and says, "Shookriyah gee."

I never respond in Hindi. I'm too scared he'd make fun of my accent.

Story of My Life

story of my life: I worked on a job application for 3 hours yesterday, only to have Fordham's consistently inconsistent internet connection prevent me from submitting it. After 20 minutes, I lost everything I had filled out, including essays. I woke up 5 hours later to go to work.

story of my life: I had to sit through a 4 hour defensive driving course in order to qualify as a driver on my Global Outreach trip. I learned that I shouldn't drink and drive, and that I cannot control the weather. And apparently, you should always stop at stop signs.

story of my life: I haven't been to the gym in 3 days, but ate so much free food yesterday that I could barely sleep.

story of my life: I have now added a pair of red boots to the collection of clothes that has mysteriously disappeared from my closet. By graduation I will be walking around in flip flops and a parka and my blue fedora.

story of my life: I had a presentation in my Economics of Energy class, and decided to dress to impress (there is more testosterone in that one class than in all of McMahon Hall). Of course, while I am presenting, I am constantly sneezing and blowing my nose, and ultimately attract only distant sympathizers handing me useless Claritin pills.

story of my life: The only job offers I have received for next year are those requiring a bank account and paying over $3000/month for a 2-hr day job. If all else fails, I may get famous by bringing a major scam to court.

story of my life: Everyone got together and decided this semester was the semester to have a boyfriend or get married. I decided I needed to learn how to play the guitar, cook pasta with olive oil and garlic, and buy pretty dresses. A semester has gone by, and I play an invisible air guitar, eat pasta with Ragu, and wear pants because it's easier.

story of my life: The guy at the coffee cart by my office gave me a huge smile when he handed me my regular order (small, with skim milk and a little sugar). He called me sweetie and told me to have a good day.
It's sunny out.

When You're Indian, Push Always Comes to Shove

This afternoon, my mother had asked me what I would do if the world were truly to end in 2012. Soul-searching is her thing, and an apocalypse is the ideal time to find your soul, before it gets swallowed up in a hopeless abyss. I told her I would want to go to Morocco and Algeria and not look for a job and get a tattoo. She told me she would want to pinch cute babies without worrying about what their mothers would say. Then we chuckled and discussed the fickle weather, the multiple earthquakes, the recent volcanic eruption, and indeed projected the end to come in 2012.

Little did I know, the end was to come today. Every brown person [every person with direct or distant ties to the Indian subcontinent] travelled to New Brunswick to watch Ustad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan in concert. As per usual, as soon we all approached the establishment, our 24th chromosome pair, which is unique to Indians and characterizes a constant, irrational fear of being left behind, began to act up. With a collective sense of fatalism, people pushed, shoved, yelled, and took all efforts to bypass social conduct in order to get into the theater first.

The man regulating the lines was a white man who plucked his eyebrows, with a high-pitched voice and a thick waist. The woman next to him had frazzled hair, frazzled eyes, and small hands. Most Indians had bought their tickets online, and held a ticket confirmation. There was one line for people to pick up their tickets, and one line for people who already had the physical tickets in their hands. It was a simple layout. Two lines. Two doorways. Two line controllers.

But there was one problem. Indians don't do lines. Indians don't do doorways. And Indians definitely don't do people who control the line. They would shout, and we would shout louder. Sometimes, I was sure I heard people just yell out indiscriminate noises just to contribute to the chaos. But, mostly, people were simply indignant about the injustice--"I bought my ticket on the Internet; why must I wait in this long line?!" It was obviously a racist scheme, a post-colonial attempt at keeping the Indians inferior. No. We couldn't stand for this. We needed to band together (except if that didn't work, then as long as the person in question could get in, that was enough) to combat this culturally imperialistic notion of the line.

Following the footsteps of our Great Father, we conducted a Satyagraha, resisting the power of the establishment. Our various efforts simply delayed the entire process, and the show even started one hour late. Some people just kept repeating the same question to the frustrated man with great eyebrows. Every ten minutes, as if inspired by a novel idea, the same group of people would ask him, "but I have my ticket confirmation, can I just go in?" or "It is so cold outside, can't I just wait in here?" Some people would try to bypass the man and wave to no one in particular, in the hopes that someone random would wave back; usually, an arbitrary brown person already past the gate would wave back, and the guest could step inside pretending to know him. Some people even tried to use their children. One lady walked up to the woman with the frazzled everything and explained that she had a baby, a stroller, and that it was cold and the line was long. Her baby cried on cue.

On April 14, 1912, when the Titanic was sinking, women and children were to be saved first, and thus took priority on the lifeboats. Unfortunately, our modern conception of a life-threatening emergency does not entail Indian classical music concerts in New Jersey. So, the baby in the stroller had to wait on line.


Once everyone was finally seated in the theater, and justice was served and Indians were liberated and racism was defeated, (and stereotypes of Indians becoming disoriented and foaming at the mouth when in large crowds were reinforced), the collective resistance against white domination and waiting in line ceded to the excitement about the concert. The announcer declared that this man had gained "international popularity" three times in a row, before she mentioned any of his other feats or musical talents. When he finally performed, we temporarily forgot our fears of being left behind and allowed his enchanting voice to take us away, far from our dusty seats, and to the myths of our own hearts.

The seductive trance was soon dispelled when the fight against social etiquette began to resurface. People began standing, walking, and talking about the singer's father, Bollywood, and Cricket. The lady immediately behind us complained about the loud music, and was offering everyone Kleenex to stuff in their ears. The same people who paid to attend the concert, and who, more importantly, fought tooth and nail to preserve their dignity and not wait on lines, were now trying to partially block out the music.

It was beautiful. Though we are sparsely located, lonely, and perpetually afraid, we were brought together by this one man's voice, the cry of the harmonium, the resonance of the tabla, and the call of the sax. Indians of the tri-state area came together to form a crowd, to displace lines, to frustrate the Establishment, and they came together to rejoice and to agonize, to celebrate and to grieve. And as I looked around me, above me, below me, and certainly to my parents and sister on either side of me, I saw nothing but a sea of short brown heads, all swaying in the same direction, with bits of Kleenex sticking out of everyone's ears. Brava.

i'm running away from home, but my parents will pay my credit card bill

The reasons why I love my parents, why I prefer them to any others, have become the reasons why I am running away from home tonight. Well, I am sitting in the dorms right now, waiting for my laundry to get done, but when I go home this Sunday, I am going to turn right back around and run towards Glen Rock. My parents want me to have fun and not worry about money. It infuriates me.

I was on the phone with my mother a few minutes ago, and we began to talk about summer plans. I mentioned one of my very close friends decided against a certain program that cost money to volunteer; my mother thought that should have never even been a consideration, for students are already giving their time, and should not have to also give their money. While I whole-heartedly agreed with her, and have always thought that paying money to volunteer was a luxury, I mentioned that I was doing the same thing for my Global Outreach trip. She said it was entirely different because I was going on the trip mainly for fun, adding that my father wanted to get me a better camera so I could take pictures, since my trip would be very "scenic." I told her, for the nth time, that this trip was not all fun and games, and that, while I was looking forward to gaining a new community of friends, that this wasn't simply a hippie road trip with my closest friends to celebrate graduation. She remained silent, and then asked why I don't do Habitat for Humanity in Paterson and then go to Spain for the rest of the month, to finally embrace my dream of spending time aimlessly in Europe. I paused, and told her that besides that issue, I was also extremely stressed about gathering funds for the trip.

She laughed.

I emphasized that I thought I would be able to gather much more money, but the only thing anyone was doing was to send letters for donations. I then hinted that I had no one to send letters to, alluding to the fact that my parents completely rejected the idea of my sending requests for donations to anyone. It is an Indian pride issue, which I have never really understood. We can't ask for money from anyone. Yes, Indians can count very well, and I am sure the numbers are crunching in everyone's minds, but we won't ever ask for money. My mother continued to giggle, acknowledging that I had sent out about 3 letters (2 of which I did in secret for fear of her tampering with the mail).

The funny thing is, my parents are extremely generous, compassionate, and very liberally donate their money to all sorts of charities and fundraisers. In this specific case, they are willing to fund my western rural poverty antics. However, I decided that this project would be my own; I wanted to take complete control of it. I didn't want my parents to just fund what they thought was a post-graduation, peripherally service-oriented trip focusing on cowboys and mountains. I wanted to be independent, raising enough money on my own to completely take charge of myself on this trip.

She continued to laugh. I knew what she was thinking--why start now?

My family has always been very communist about our money; there is no concept of ownership with our money. Mine (which is none) is my mother's is my father's is my sister's (which is surprisingly a small fortune.) This time, I wanted the trip to be funded by the capitalist version of myself.

I told my mother I had decided on many ventures to raise the funds, ventures that failed before they even came to fruition.

I thought about writing papers for people, guaranteeing A's for $50. But, I haven't been writing my own papers; I have barely read a thing since Spring Break, and should probably guarantee a passing grade for myself before raising everyone else's GPA for $50.

I thought I would vacuum people's apartments for $20. But, my own apartment remains completely filthy, and I decided that I should probably attack the monsters under our couch, first.

I thought I would tutor people in French, teach Bollywood workshops, thread people's eyebrows. And then I realized I am barely articulate in French, no one cares to pay to learn Bollywood dancing as long as they can pet the dog and screw the light bulb, and my own eyebrows need tending to.

I thought I would cook for people, and even bring them food to their rooms. I have not eaten a hot meal in 3 days. I am still wondering whether or not people would pay for me to pour milk in their cereal.

My mother continued to laugh. She told me I shouldn't worry; I would definitely make the $800 in 3 weeks. Between her chuckles, I could make out the words "resourceful" and "busy" and "youth." I appreciated the essence of what she was saying, but I was still mad that I was so crippled, that I had such generous and supportive parents. Then she told me to have a good night, and not forget my allergy medicine.

This Sunday, I am going to give my parents the silent treatment. That's what they get for paying for things and forcing me to have fun.

the anti-Globalization movement vis-à-vis Downward Dog

Yesterday, I threw away all previous notions and values about the spread of ideas and commerce, about the elevation of all peoples through a global network, about the destruction of arbitrary political borders for a universal acknowledgement of the human race. I went to a Yoga class at Bally's. I discovered the most detrimental effects of Globalization. And I decided that people can stay localized and segregated, as long as the ancient spiritual, even ascetic, discipline of early Hindus isn't reduced to a "embrace the present, but tighten those glutes!"

While I have always taken issue with Yoga, as an exotic franchise, I can never claim to know any more than the instructor. I know as little, or even less, about Hindu philosophy than the next unfortunately confused immigrant child. This Yoga teacher in particular, however, gave me some confidence in my religious illiteracy. She was around 50 years old, and thought she was 30; her hair was streaked with different colors and messily tied up in a knot at the top of her head. She had a look of forced relaxation on her face, which would tense up every time we did not properly execute Upward Dog.

She murmured into the mic, so that instead of counting down from 100 and "breathing in the present moment" and "breathing out regrets of the past and anxieties of the future," I kept looking around to see what I was supposed to do. I assume I have just become slightly deaf because I have been playing "Say Ahh" on repeat for the last 3 weeks; the tranquil instrumental she played confused my eardrums, which have habituated themselves to trashy, PG-13 lyrics.

When we started doing the poses, she told us it was the Year of the Tiger, so that we would start with the Tiger Pose. I stared into the mirror in disbelief, as she started tensing up her back like a large cat, ready to claw at the air. The Year of the Tiger is a Chinese categorization. While she was in the general area (Asia), India and China usually don't get mixed up. One of them has Slumdog Millionaire and Red Dots on Foreheads, and the other has Communism and Fried Pork Dumplings. Either way, we did not do a Tiger Pose, and moved on to the next move.

At one point, we held our arms together, as if in prayer, and raised them high above our heads while arching our backs. She described this to be "the way we pray to the Great Spirit." Again, I looked around, hoping someone would ask her to clarify. What Great Spirit? Who is "we?" Are you part of this community of believers who prays to this one Spirit? Are you conflating Cherokee (perception of Cherokee) with Indian? She then told us to recruit the muscle fibers in our abs to pray to the Great Spirit even deeper.

Finally, towards the end of the class, she explained the significance of the cow in Hinduism. We were all contorted in a position she claimed to be "the Happy Cow," though it looked more like we were all holding in our pee. She explained that Hindus don't necessarily worship the cow, but that they consider "the cow to be like a mother, for she gives milk and butter and cheese and ice cream." And her trance-like voice faded away, and everyone began to dream of a mint chocolate chip cow being milked by a shriveled Indian man with a long white beard, all the while chanting to the Great Spirit.

No matter how many Yoga classes you avoid, you can't hide from Globalization. Its effects are everywhere--Whole Foods, 99-cent stores, hybrid children. It's powerful, it's tyrannic, it's unstoppable. There are legitimate reasons people collect themselves to prevent the expansion of telecommunications and commerce that has enabled the diffusion of ideas and cultures and peoples. The phenomenon has essentially subverted any notion of culture, defined as per religion, locality, family, sexuality, etc..., and simultaneously deconstructs and reconstructs borders, as stereotypes are both dissected and propagated. Some argue for labor rights and for cultural relativism. However, I personally fear Globalization because it has turned history into a myth and people into spectacles. But more importantly, as a child of this phenomenon, I reject it using my own myths, my own notions of the truth, of culture, of myself. In fact, the Happy Cow may be the closest I get to finding my own history, which I have frequently romanticized when eating chutney sandwiches.

Regardless of how I feel about the commercialization of Yoga, or rather, the unfortunate conflation of distinct cultures and histories legitimized by an enchanting voice and streaky hair, Globalization happens. The Year of the Tiger will soon pass, and Yoga will continue to gain in popularity. Now all I have to do is pray that my thighs won't be so sore tomorrow.